


Codes

by swanofakind



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: BUT I DO NOT MEAN THAT SARCASTICALLY LIKE SOME OF YOU, Boromir Complaining About Work, But also they have sad lives so it's bittersweet, Canon Compliant, Denethor's A+ Parenting, F/M, Family Dynamics, Faramir Feeling Love & Happiness, Finduilas Being an Amazing Genius/Human, Gap Filler, Gen, I know these characters often get put through A LOT but I promise this story is not about the ANGST, M/M, No Sex, POV Alternating, POV Boromir, POV Denethor II, POV Faramir, POV Finduilas, POV Third Person, Post-War of the Ring, Pre-War of the Ring, Rated for Thematic Elements and Innuendo, The Fam Up to Shenanigans, They be laughing y'all, Young Faramir, alcohol mention, blame Tolkien, heh heh one more for the road, okay I'll stop tagging now love you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 06:17:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18493111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swanofakind/pseuds/swanofakind
Summary: Codes of conduct, codes of rule, codes to conceal, and all that we attempt to figure out about one another, and ourselves, in the time that we have.





	1. i. [r o d o]

**Author's Note:**

> code (kōd)
> 
> n. A systematically arranged and comprehensive collection of laws.  
> n. A systematic collection of regulations and rules of procedure or conduct: a traffic code.  
> n. A system of signals used to represent letters or numbers in transmitting messages. 
> 
> (from The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, 4th Edition)

**i.**

**[ r o d o ]**

_The Archives of Minas Tirith, 2977 of the Third Age_

 

            It was the second month she had been able to come and work for several hours of the afternoon nearly every day. Finduilas found the work here a reward of its own, but escaping the oppressive heat of mid-July in the cool of the caverns carved deep into the mountain was an added delight.  

           And that it was a refuge from the prospect of another of Lady Elthiriel’s charming little gatherings? _Nearly perfect._ The stones echoed her giggle back at her, and she smudged the ink in surprise, eyes going wide.

            “Unfair.” His voice was steady, low, but she could hear the humor in it, and felt his smile in the air before she raised her head to see it.

           And that on the fifth day each week, there were no afternoon councils in the tower, and Denethor could join her here? _Perfection._

          “What is unfair?” She wondered briefly if she had been so engrossed in her own thoughts she’d missed something he’d said.

          “That you should have cause to chortle and yet not share its source.” His eyes remained trained on the parchment in front of him as he spoke, his quill steady as his voice, moving across the page, back to the pot of ink, and on to writing again. It was mesmerizing, soothing, the rhythm and grace of it almost like a dance. The silence stretched a little longer than she had meant it too. Grey eyes raised to meet her own, and she saw her smile melt the trace of concern in them.

            “It _wasn’t_ a _chortle_.” His eyes were twinkling now.

            “Fair enough.”

            “Yes, I do believe so,” she said with a nod. He returned his eyes to his work.

            “Yet still you withhold the source of your…would guffaw be acceptable?”

            “I think you know very well it is not.”

            “You’ll have to redo that whole sheet now. Calling it merely a laugh hardly seems fitting.” She resisted the urge to crumple the parchment and throw it at him.

            “And well we see that a laugh needn’t be to blame for that.” She gestured at his own pile of discarded papers. They would need to be burned when the two of them were through for the day to preserve the integrity of the cipher. She watched as Denethor’s eyes moved slowly to her own, notably larger pile of failed attempts, his expression now unbearably smug.

            “Yes, you do seem quite capable of explaining the cause of ruined sheets. Tell me—“

            The crumpled parchment hit him square on the nose.


	2. ii. [n a r o]

**ii.**

**[ n a r o ]**

 

_The Citadel, Minas Tirith, 2990_ _of the Third Age_

 

            There was a soft knock at the door, and only one person it could belong to. _Earlier than I expected._

            “Come in,” said Denethor busying himself tidying papers on the desk, suddenly feeling unsure of how to proceed, despite having planned for this for nearly a week. The door opened, as carefully as the knock had been soft, and Denethor could see sleep still nestled in the corners of Faramir’s eyes, though they were bright. The sun was not yet up, but Denethor felt now it had already risen.

            “Good morning, my Lord Steward.” Denethor bit back a smile, not wishing to demean Faramir’s efforts at formality, though there was something impossibly sweet about the eager seriousness written in his son’s expression. A stab of something considerably more bitter came next, and uncertainty struck at his heart again. He willed himself to remember Imrahil’s wisdom in suggesting this in the first place. _We have today; that is where I shall be._

            “And good morning to you, my lord. Shall we begin with a walk on the wall?”

            “As you wish, my lord Steward.” Faramir’s shoulders slumped and Denethor felt himself falter a bit. He followed his son’s expression to the small desk behind his own and the scrolls waiting there, working to riddle out his shift in mood.

            “Ah. You are eager to begin, yes?” A small nod. And then a reply so soft his ears strained to catch it, yet he caught its meaning if not its every word.

            “You are worried what your aunt said is true, and I have changed my mind, thinking you too young?” Denethor waited only a heartbeat before Faramir answered with another nod, his shoulders slumping even further. He knelt and waited for his son to meet his eyes, bringing up a hand to cradle Faramir’s chin as their eyes met.

            “I haven’t changed my mind. And I do believe you are ready. Do you believe so, my lord?” If Faramir’s eyes had been bright before, now they were positively beaming.

            “Yes, my Lord Steward.”

            “Very good.” Denethor straightened up and moved to collect his cloak from its place by the door. “Then we shall have a quick walk to clear our minds, and when we return, a tray of breakfast, and all the practice ciphering you’d like.”


	3. iii. [u d n i]

**iii.**

**[ u d n i ]**

 

_First Circle Garrison, Minas Tirith, 3003 of the Third Age_

 

            The left side of the desk was completely covered now, and Boromir couldn’t help the long sigh that escaped his lips. _Already nearly midnight, and what have I to show for my efforts?_

            The proposed changes to the section of the city’s code regulating the taxation of all the businesses therein was proving as dense as he had feared. Suggesting as much to his father in front of Lord Hallas had proven far more disastrous than Boromir had anticipated, though, since it had resulted in even more of the already considerable workload being placed in his hands.

            Even if Faramir’s sudden coughing fit at his commentary had been most amusing, it hardly seemed worth it now. Though Boromir still couldn’t see how it could possibly have managed to fool their father, which meant by Boromir’s calculation several of these scrolls should rightfully be in his brother’s hands. At least there was more bread and cheese.

            “Now that’s not very captain-like behavior.” And company. Boromir met Theodred’s eyes evenly, but found it impossible not to return the other’s smile. “Sighing’s bad for morale.”

            “As it so happens, so is being buried alive in scrolls.” _Especially_ these _scrolls_.

            “Such a mood, you should have more tea.” Without dropping Theodred’s eyes, Boromir picked up and held out his cup in one fluid motion. Theodred flashed a grin and moved to pour the tea; but as Boromir found his eyes again, something seemed to have broken in Theodred’s expression, the mirth drained out of it now, as if carried away with the force and fluidity of a great river.

            There was enough to fill the cup, and another sigh to fill the silence. Boromir took a sip, Theodred set down the teapot, their eyes still locked.

            “Will it make me forget you are leaving on the morrow?” Boromir’s voice was little more than a murmur.

            “No one brews a tea that strong.”

            “Then I don’t see—“ One finger laid across his lips, and suddenly he felt there might be no reason to ever speak again.

            “But it might remind you I’ll be back.” Boromir stood up, downed the rest of the tea at once, and moved to a cabinet on the far side of the room.

            “You know I love,” Boromir reached back as far on the bottom shelf as he could, “your tea.” Theodred snorted. “But I think it’s time for something a bit stronger.”


	4. [t i i h l]

 

**[ t i i h l ]**

 

_The Steward’s House, Emyn Arnen, 0005 of the Fourth Age_

 

            The notes in the margins had to be more than two decades old by Faramir’s reckoning, but they were proving no less amusing now than they had the first day he’d seen them. _Certainly more entertaining than any notes we’ve made today_.

            “How long before Uncle Denethor realized?” Lothíriel asked with a chuckle, eyes wide. Éomer had gone from chuckling to open laughter by this point, unfurling another scroll, searching the margins for more.

            “That Boromir had made such colorful annotations on this copy? And that it was moving around the table, passed hand to hand, with all of his…notes attached? Only halfway through the council.” Faramir replied. They were all laughing now.

            “And Boromir?”

            “Oh, he realized just about the next moment, I expect, seeing as there was little else could have explained father laughing _quite_ out loud and _quite_ in the middle of a meeting about taxes with _quite_ all those lords and ministers gathered.” There was no sting in the memory, not sitting here like this.

            “He laughed?” The scandalized expression on his cousin’s face made Faramir laugh himself.

            “Yes, Lothíriel, though, he made a rather hasty recovery under the glare of old Lord Hallas, you can be sure,” Faramir replied. Éomer was doubled over now, nearly hanging from the chair.

            “Do you need a drink? You’re quite wheezing,” Éowyn inquired of her brother.

            “Oh, Éowyn – come now – you have to see – the humor in it?” Éomer’s words were punctuated by his continued laughter, which in turn had Lothíriel giggling.

            “I suppose it is amusing, but really the way you’re carrying on.” Faramir studied her expression. She moved her eyes to his and he watched the concern begin fade from them as he smiled softly before continuing.

            “Ironically, that is precisely what Theodred said to me when we attempted to recount that fateful council to him the following spring,” Faramir said, holding her gaze a moment longer before squeezing her hand and crossing to take the scroll Éomer was holding, noting the beginnings of a smile on her face now.

            “In fact, I think it’s somewhere on this one right here, that you can see the evidence of his own hand in the crime.” He held up the scroll for a better view, and ran his fingers along two conjoined circles, tea-stains from the bottom of their cups, followed by a few more circles that could only have come from a red wine.

            “See! The evidence! It was the summer Boromir became Captain General. Theodred had just finished up a season of service with his éored here in the city and was headed back to Edoras the following day, and Boromir was annoyed father had assigned him all that work, and when the tea ran out and it was past midnight and he still wasn’t near finished, he poured wine in his cup instead, which led to making increasingly impolitic notes, and then they woke up the next morning, having fallen asleep at some point on the pile of scrolls, not realizing all the absurd and…witty commentary they’d left in the margins instead of the work Boromir was supposed to be doing—work he knew well to have done alone and with a clear mind—and he brought those scrolls along with him after Theodred left and he was rushing to get back up the city in time. He was rather a sorry sight when I met him at the chamber door, and that was before he figured out about his annotations, so you can only imagine after.” Éowyn was definitely grinning now, so he continued.

            “Luckily, Boromir had at some point in the night began writing in a simple cipher my mother had created, only really known to him, Father, and me, so most of his more uncouth additions remained unknown to the council at large.”

            “Your mother wrote ciphers?” Éowyn asked, openmouthed.

            “Aunt Finduilas was a cipherist?” Lothíriel asked at precisely the same moment, similarly agape.

            “Yes, indeed, and a very fine one. This one,” Faramir gestured at the scroll, “was really just a sort of game, a practice exercise. It’s the one father used to teach Boromir and I the basic principles when we were young. And it became sort of game between the three of us, leaving notes only we could read on various working copies of documents we shared a hand in. Though one of her great works was designing a system that added another layer of encipherment to the existing cipher, while also increasing the security of the way the messages themselves were concealed for travel. And thereby the safety of those who carried them.” He felt perhaps he was rambling a bit now and paused.

            “Impressive,” a far more sober Éomer observed.

            “Indeed,” intoned Lothíriel, still sounding more than a little awestruck.

            “She was, “ Faramir sighed, “she was an impressive person. Who knows what she could have, what she would have done with more time.” He trailed off. There was a silence then, and it had a heaviness in it, but it was more like the weight of a basket well-stocked, heavy with the bounty of all the sustenance therein. Not a flagstone, crushing one into place, but an anchor, grounding one out of need.

            “I do.” Éowyn’s voice was quiet, but firm, holding him fast. “I have heard your stories of your father’s work, and your brother’s, and I have seen your own. She is in all of it. You make it a little more obvious each day. What she would have done? Precisely as you are doing, and have done.” He did not trust himself to speak. Lothíriel eyes were closed. Éomer’s were shining.

            “And Theodred, and—“ her voice faltered and she reached for his hand, which he gladly offered, as her other arm stretched toward her brother.

            “Yes, I see him in your labors, too,” Éomer interjected, moving past her outstretched hand to embrace her completely. Faramir let her hand drop and took a step back. Lothíriel picked up the scroll nearest her and met Faramir’s eyes. The moment stretched for several heartbeats before he saw her begin to grin. He raised an eyebrow.

            “I think shall do a bit of his work right now,” said Lothíriel loudly, not dropping his gaze, “and pour you each a cup of tea—or perhaps wine?” Faramir could not stop the giggling that bubbled up within him, and he would not have wished to anyway.

            “Only,” said Éomer, grinning broadly, Éowyn gazing up at him in delight, “if you promise to keep Faramir away from his desk, or who knows how tomorrow’s council shall go!”  

            “He shall not be anywhere near his desk tonight if I have my way,” Éowyn replied, sending her brother and Lothíriel into absolute gales of laughter. Her brow crinkled in puzzlement and she turned to Faramir, whose eyes were wide as he bit back his own laughter. But before he began to speak, she had turned back, snatched the scroll from Lothíriel’s hand and was now swatting Éomer with it.

            “That – is – _not_ – what I – _meant_ – and you _know_ it!” Faramir did not attempt to intervene, and was thus the only one of them who noticed the new arrivals in the doorway, who were both staring rather wide-eyed at the scene.

            “Uncle Imrahil, cousin Elphir, welcome. We were just discussing the new tax codes.”

            “Yes, I can see that,” Imrahil answered, clapping one hand to Faramir’s shoulder, which Faramir turned into an embrace before turning to hug a still baffled Elphir as well. He turned just in time to see his wife punch her brother in the arm.

            “I found the proposed changes seemed to have little in the way of controversy surrounding them,” Elphir quipped, a grin taking shape.

            “Oh, this is a much older dispute, I’m afraid,” Faramir replied, eyes twinkling. Elphir quirked an eyebrow, so he continued. “I’d be more than happy to watch what your sister would do to you if you’d been jesting such as Éomer’s just done.” Imrahil’s laugh drew the attention of the others to the new arrivals.

            “Oh, Papa,” Lothíriel exclaimed, “it is so good to see you!” She was to him in a moment, arms flung about his neck. The others exchanged greetings, and Faramir busied himself gathering up the scrolls and neatening the work table. He heard Éomer offer a jab at Elphir over that latter’s rumbling stomach, so he called over his shoulder, “Dinner should be served shortly, no one starves in Emyn Arnen.” _Not these days._

            A few more adjustments, and the table was a good deal more orderly and a great deal more favorable for packing up after the meal.

            “Come then, love. Shall we go in?” Éowyn’s hand pressed against the small of his back, her voice a gentle melody in his ear.

            Later that night, she would sing truly, a familiar tune she often used to lull him to sleep. The night birds joined in her song in several places, though there was no voice in the world could rival hers for him now, and the moonlight shone soft through the window, and there was nothing in all the world that need be deciphered or arranged or hidden away. It was all laid out before him plainly.

_There is only now, only love. Here we are._


End file.
